


Second Skin

by msgenevieve



Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Porn, season four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-24
Updated: 2008-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes wearing a second skin makes it easier to be yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Skin

~*~

“Son of a -”

The loud outburst, quite different to Sara’s usually dulcet tones, drifts across from her nautical quarters, turning several heads. Faintly alarmed, Michael stares in the direction of her boat, but he sees nothing out of the ordinary. 

Clearing his throat, Roland looks across the table at him. “Maybe she needs some help with her zipper.” The younger man gives him a wolfish smile. “If you’re too busy, I guess I could -”

Michael is on his feet before he even realises his body is moving. “Just double-check the guy’s schedule,” he says flatly, not bothering to hide the fact that he’s coming to the end of his patience as far as this particular genre of Roland’s wisecracks are concerned. It’s not that Sara needs him to defend her honor, it’s just that –

Well, it’s just that he’d rather not have to punch anyone today.

Roland holds up his hand in mock surrender. “Hey, I hear you, man.”

To Michael’s mild annoyance, Roland was partially right. Sara is standing in front of the mirrored door of the small wall cabinet, her hands hidden beneath the heavy drape of her hair and a frustrated expression plastered on her perfectly made-up face. She looks up at the sound of his first footstep onto the wooden deck, and the frustration is quickly replaced by relief. “Thank God, a second pair of hands.”

His mild annoyance quickly becomes non-existent. He takes in the fact that what she’s wearing fits her like a second skin, then she promptly turns her back to him, pulling up her hair with one hand, clutching at the still undone halter ties of her shirt with the other. “My fingers are all thumbs today,” she tells him as he tries and fails not to stare at the unaccustomed sight of her bare shoulders and arms. The scars from her time in Panama are hidden by the cut of her shirt, and he wonders if she'd chosen it for that reason. The jeans she’s wearing are new and follow the contours of her hips and her bottom with a breathtaking faithfulness, and he makes a mental note to ask Don Self exactly who is supplying the clothing for them. “Will you tie this for me?”

“Uh, sure.”

He’s never had so much trouble tying a simple bow. 

“Better tie a double knot,” she murmurs, her hands now fussing with the waistband of her jeans as his fingers fumble with the soft material.

“Why?”

She chuckles under her breath. “You’ll see.”

_There’s a wealth of information in those two words_ , he thinks, and then she turns around and he has difficulty thinking at all.

_Oh._

Her shirt is lime green and lemon yellow and looks as though it’s been painted onto her skin, but that’s not the reason his tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth. He’s cupped those breasts in his hands in the darkness, memorized the taste of them beneath his lips - on only three occasions, he admits, but once had been enough to burn the details into his brain - but he has never seen them look like _that_.

“Why, Doctor Tancredi,” he manages to quip in the worst Southern accent he’s ever heard, feeling as though every drop of blood is his body has decided to race towards his groin at the same time. “You look mighty fine.”

A faint hint of colour rises up in her face as she gives him a quick smile. “Let’s hope the mark thinks so.”

And just like that, his blood cools. “You don’t have to do this.”

Another smile, this time one of reassurance. “Yes, I do.” She casts a decidedly rueful glance down at the generous swell of her cleavage, her fingers nimbly adjusting the plunging neckline, and he wants nothing more than to push her hands away and replace them with his mouth. “We’ve all got our roles to play.” She looks down at her breasts once more, and he doesn’t bother fighting the urge to follow suit. “We all have to make the most of every piece of arsenal we have, right?”

He has no argument to offer her. They both know she’s right. 

Finally satisfied with what she sees in the mirror - God knows, _he_ is - she turns and studies him, her gaze sliding up from his boots over his jeans and finally the open neck of his blue shirt. “You’re wearing that?”

The possessive note in her voice makes him grin. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” Her teeth flash white against her lipstick as a teasing smile curves her mouth. “I always did like you in blue.”

He fingers the unbuttoned cuffs of his chambray blue shirt. “Ah. Prison humor.” He can stand a little teasing, because it means she’s relaxed enough to crack jokes. “I like it.”

She’s studying his face now, her smile fading as her gaze lingers on his bare head. “There’ll be security cameras, won’t there?”

He nods, then pulls his trump card out of his back pocket. “I thought of that.”

She stares at the creased bucket hat in his hand, a sartorial struggle evident in her eyes, then her smile returns. “It all makes sense now.”

He shakes the worst of the creases out of the cotton hat, and pulls it onto his head. "What does?"

Amusement dances in her eyes as she steps forward, lifting her hands to grip the brim and gently tug his face down to hers. “The SS Minnow jokes.”

He laughs, and as the sound quivers around them, he realises it’s the first time he’s laughed all day. Strange that it always seems to happen when he's with her. _Then again_ , he thinks as she touches her mouth to his in a soft kiss of reaffirmation, _maybe not so strange at all._

~*~

They hit every mark just right, keep to their schedule with almost frightening accuracy and blend into the crowd with an ease Michael hadn’t thought possible. Buoyed by the possibility that it all might work exactly as they’d planned, he doesn’t bother resisting the urge to seize a moment of normalcy with Sara. He watches her as she glides through the sea of seasoned gamblers and poker-faced bookmakers, indulging in the sheer pleasure of allowing himself to _ogle_ \- there really is no other word for it – her as she approaches him. When this is over, he thinks, he is going to take her to a quiet place with a door that locks and untie that double knot.

As though he’s just announced his intentions over the PA system, her eyes meet his, and awareness crackles through the warm air between them. She’s close enough now that he can see the blush in her cheeks, the same heat that’s creeping up the back of his neck and tickling the base of his spine. He grins at her as she passes, and there’s suddenly a hint of smugness in her embarrassed smile, a teasing rebuke in her murmured aside.

“Don’t get used to it.”

His grin widens as he studies her retreating back, a sight that’s almost as arresting as the front. _Normal_ , he thinks suddenly. She makes him feel normal. Not just someone with a freakishly high IQ, who worried his mother and his brother by noticing too much and feeling too much, whose head sometimes feels as though it’s about to split in half from all the thoughts fighting to be heard. When he’s with her, he feels like himself and someone else at the same time, and it feels good. It feels better than anything he's felt in a long time. 

He thinks of Sucre asking what he’s going to do when all this is over, and knows now that it’s not that _what_ that matters, but the question of _with whom_. He just hopes that Sara keeps coming up with the same answer he does.

~*~

Everything keeps going perfectly to plan, right up to the moment it all goes wrong. And when it starts going wrong, it goes wrong very quickly, and they're forced to abort before they can even begin to copy the fourth card. Coming on the heels of their snatching the contents of the first three cards in quick succession, it slams them back down to earth, reminding them of the sheer lunacy of their undertaking.

Sara sits beside him in the SUV on the tense return trip to the warehouse, her hand resting lightly on his knee in one of those casual gestures of affection that seem to come so easily to her. She still looks achingly beautiful, something that makes him resent the fact that his head is pounding all the more. Carefully avoiding his brother’s gaze in the rearview mirror, he swipes his knuckle quickly across his top lip, relieved to find nothing but sweat. 

_Not telling you would be a lie, and I want you to know I’ll never lie to you._

_She’s a doctor, she could help. She cares about you._

Suddenly exhausted, he closes his eyes, putting his hand over Sara’s where it rests on his knee, gratified by the way she instantly curls her fingers around his. _If only everything was that simple_ , he thinks bleakly.

~*~

Once they’re back at the warehouse, there’s nothing to they can do but wait. They’ve flown above the radar one too many times today, and Self has given the order that they’re in lockdown until tomorrow morning. The fourth cardholder has an early morning jogging appointment with his personal trainer, a session during which he will encounter a pretty woman with auburn hair and a determined smile. The thought of using her as female bait leaves a sour taste in Michael’s mouth, but she’s right. They have to make use of everything weapon they have.

The crew fan out through the warehouse, seeking solitude, solace in snack food or perhaps sleep. Michael watches Lincoln as he dials into the secure channel Self had ordered set up for the purpose of communicating with LJ, and the eagerness in his brother’s face as he waits to speak to his son makes his heart ache. 

Alex Mahone is standing at the window, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze trained on a distant point on the horizon. There is a stillness about him that reminds Michael of a soldier standing to attention. _Which_ , Michael thinks, _is what he is._ He knows the other man is thinking of his son and his son’s killer, and marvels at the fact that he is still here with them, still helping them to track down the ghosts of the Company for a prize that will never bring his son back to him. 

Sucre and Bellick are bickering amiably about wrestling, while Roland explores God-only-knows-what on the laptop, his mouth going from the packet of corn chips in his hand to his mouth with monotonous regularity.

They are all just waiting to fight the next fight, and there are few things Michael hates more than waiting. 

"Do you have a headache?”

He starts at the sound of Sara’s voice, then relaxes. A headache is a normal condition that many normal people suffer, he tells himself. There’s no danger in admitting to a headache. “A little.”

Standing behind him, she presses her cool palms against his forehead, her thumbs gently massaging the skin just above his eyebrows. He closes his eyes, sinking down in his chair as her touch soaks into his senses. He leans back, almost groaning with contentment as his head nestles against the soft warmth of her belly. She’s still wearing the clothes she’d worn to the racetrack, and beneath the faint trace of her perfume, he can smell her sun-warmed skin. He suspects the skin between her breasts would taste of soap and salt and _her_ , and he suddenly wants very much to confirm his suspicions. He wants a moment away from all of this, to go back to the moment she’d made him laugh this morning, back to when he'd felt like just another normal guy, flirting with his girl. 

His head still hurts, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He reaches up to grab her hands, pulling them down to his mouth. “Want to take a walk?” he murmurs against the pale skin of her wrist, and imagines he feels her pulse leap. “Find a quiet nook?”

She pulls one hand away from his, laying it instead on his overheated forehead, cradling his head against her belly. “I think you need some rest.”

He opens his eyes as a precaution, but they’re alone at the table. “What I need is to be with you,” he says softly, and the hand on his forehead twitches.

“Boat?”

The tremor in her voice finds an echo in the shudder of anticipation that ripples down his spine. “No.” The boat is fine in the darkness when everyone else is asleep, but it’s still early, and their companions are no doubt restless enough to eavesdrop on anything out of the ordinary. “I have a better idea.”

She follows him in silence and without question, the soft soles of her flat shoes scuffing on the concrete floor. By tacit agreement, he makes a quick detour to her boat, rifling hastily through the toiletry bag she keeps beside her bunk, smiling at the irony of such an ordinary task in the midst of such extraordinary circumstances. When they reach the door of the bathroom, she gives him a searching look. He smiles at her, thinking that in another life, he might get his face slapped for what he’s about to say. “The room is relatively soundproof and the door locks.”

Her eyes widen, then she pushes open the door and vanishes into the dimly-lit bathroom without hesitation. He follows her, closing the door and turning the lock with a pleasingly steady hand. 

Thanks to Self’s invisible minions, the bathroom is clean and smells of disinfectant. Sara stands in the middle of the room, watching him with dark, serious eyes. She’s breathing fast, her breasts rising and falling rapidly in the tight confines of her shirt, and he wants her so much he cannot stand to be this close and not be touching her. 

He takes a step towards her, and she takes a step back, her eyes locked with his. Another step, then another, then her back is against the tiled wall beside the glass shower door and there is scarcely an inch of air between them. His heartbeat pulsing in his ears, he traces the deep v-neck of her shirt with one finger, slowly and deliberately, his mouth going dry as her eyes flutter shut. “Sara.”

She opens her eyes, then it’s his turn to falter as her hands slide beneath his shirt to stroke his stomach, her touch butterfly light on his still-tender skin. “How’s your headache?” 

Knowing she needs an answer, he manages to choke out something that sounds like _gone_ , then he kisses her, hard and hungry and desperate. Her hands curl into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer as her mouth opens like a flower beneath his. He slides his knee between hers, pressing his thigh hard against the zipper of her jeans, swallowing her groan of pleasure as she rocks against him. Her breasts fill his hands, warm and soft and lush, and he wants to tear the flimsy material away from her skin and taste every inch of her. “Do you want to wear this shirt again?”

Her breath is hot against his neck, her palm a delicious torment as it brushes against the growing ache between his legs. “Not particularly, but I have to walk out of here eventually and I’d rather not do it naked.”

He reaches for the double knot he’d tied so carefully a few hours earlier. “Okay.”

They don’t speak again for a long time, escaping together into a world of touch and feel and taste and smell. Her hands are cool on his heated, healing skin, making him forget the prickle of irritation that has been his constant companion for the last few days. His hands relearn every curve, every dip and hollow, his mouth following their path across her pale skin until they’re both breathless and impatient. When she finally breathes an unsteady, “ _Now. Please._ ” into his ear, he feels a quiver go through his entire body, from the soles of his feet to the tips of his ears.

Somehow, he manages to retain the presence of mind to retrieve the condom from the pocket of his jeans that Sara had draped over one of the basins, then they’re clutching each other, her back pressed against the tiled wall, holding their breath as he pushes himself inside her in one quick, hard slide of need and flesh and heat. 

“God, Michael-” Her head drops forward, her hair spilling over his shoulder as she exhales loudly, her hands gripping his hips so hard he knows her fingers will leave small smudges of pressure on his skin. “Yes. _Yes_.”

They start to move together, quickly finding a rhythm that makes his vision blur around the edges, but it’s not enough. Kissing her hard, he slides his hands up her thighs to cup her bottom, pulling her up against him. Tearing her mouth away from his, she jerks her head towards the nearby vanity. “There?” she suggests on a strangled gasp as he shifts against her, inside her. She winds her arms around his neck as he deposits on her on the vanity, her legs wrapping around his hips to urge him closer. Obeying her urging, he immediately discovers that the vanity is the perfect height for this kind of activity, the feel of her around him akin to a live current flowing through his blood. 

_Oh, God._

Cupping her breasts in his hands, he lowers his head to kiss them, biting and sucking gently until she’s writhing in his arms, almost inaudible sounds of pleasure humming in her throat. When he slips his hand between them, curling his fingers into the sleek warmth of her body, a tremor dances through the thighs wrapped so tightly around his hips. “I love you,” he tells her, his mouth hovering over hers, breathing her in, and she arches against him, pushing back against his body and his hand, a soft keening noise slipping from her lips. 

“I love you too, and – God, please, Michael, please-”

He’s close now, so very close, and he needs her with him when he falls. He wants to hold back, to watch her face as she teeters on the edge, but raw pleasure has begun to burn through him like a firestorm, sweeping aside everything in its path. They twist frantically together for an endless moment, then she cries out, her hips jerking beneath his with an awkward grace, seeking and finding, giving and taking, promising and cajoling. 

Breathing out a shuddering sigh, he gives himself over to the mindless rush of release that hits him like a fucking freight train, his body pulsing hotly inside her, her name a broken gasp on his tongue as he finds her mouth with his, kissing her as though it could be the last time he’ll ever kiss her.

The irony is not lost on him, but he doesn’t care. Once she was nothing more than a picture on his wall, a small cog in his grand plan. Now she is the ending he so desperately wants to reach, and there is nothing he won’t do to make it happen.

They stay like that for what feels like a long time, a tableau of spent passion, then his legs threaten to buckle beneath him. He immediately feels her arms slip around his waist, pulling him against her, supporting him. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he inhales the sweet tang of her skin, his hands slowly exploring the length of her spine. “I love you.”

She curls her hands around his neck, cradling the back of his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say that.”

He smiles against her flushed skin. His head has stopped pounding, and he suddenly feels as though lunacy is far too strong a word for what their little groups is attempting to achieve. If he and Sara have managed to find each other through the minefield of their shared history, then anything is possible. “That works for me.”

They dress slowly, and he knows she’s as loathe to leave their temporary sanctuary as he is. “Maybe we should shower before we go back,” he suggests casually, even though he knows they don’t have time to indulge in the kind of shower he has in mind. He’s quite sure the others will already be looking for them, and he doesn’t particularly want to have to deal with impatient fists hammering on the locked door. He just wants to put the offer on the table, so to speak.

In the middle of attempting to tie the halter of her shirt, Sara swallows hard, glancing at the glass door of the shower stall, then at him. “Maybe later?”

He nods, knowing that later they will probably be poring over plans and blueprints and printed diary entries. He suspects she knows it too. “I’ll make a reservation with the maitre de.”

She chuckles softly under her breath, then flutters her fingers over the untied fabric draped around her neck. “Will you tie this for me?”

He looks at her, feeling a pleasant sense of déjà vu, except now she’s glowing with sexual repletion and something more, something less tangible but infinitely more enduring, and smiles. “Sure.”

He doesn’t bother tying a double knot this time.

~*~


End file.
